Namasté
by Pes Anserinus
Summary: It had never been an issue of having faith. It had been an issue of losing it.


I don't own the characters that are inherent to the television program "Crossing Jordan". Nor do I know the person(s) who do own them. So I hope said people don't mind if I borrow them for a minute or two. Or three. Just so you know, this isn't for profit, just for kicks. You have now been disclaimed.

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Dusk settled in a cool blanket over the city as she stepped out into the seemingly serene evening air. Short bursts of rain had plagued the greater part of the afternoon, and now the atmosphere held a tinge of that after-rain freshness that seemed to cleanse the city smog... if only temporarily. True sunshine hadn't consistently been visible for what felt like ages and she was beginning to think it was the start of the second coming. Yet now, as the limbo between day and night approached, she instinctively gazed upward and watched the clouds finally seem to give way, allowing slight hues of yellow, orange, and rose to peek from behind their vast, solemn captor.

Her temperament as of late had mirrored the weather, albeit entirely unintentionally. Yet she had been disenchanted, lackluster, just the same. She tended to shrug it off as a bout of depression due to a vitamin deficiency caused by lack of sun exposure, but even she wasn't going to buy that flimsy excuse for more than three seconds. After all, pulling the hours she had been, even if the sun hadn't taken a vacation, she still wouldn't have seen much daylight.

Hints of dimming evening light danced off the dampened, autumn leaves, giving rise to a spectacular glistening effect as the sky opened up a little more. And if today were any other day, she may have stopped the car and watched the sun set in between the buildings, taking the moment to admire a piece of artwork that mortal hands could never truly capture.

But not today. Not 'the day'.

There was an unspoken understanding that 'the day' meant she was free to leave the morgue whenever she felt it necessary and not return until she saw fit. It wasn't considered running, no. It was simply the day in which she visited her mother's grave.

It was the day she openly allowed herself to grieve.

Every year it was the same tradition. Every year there was someone there to visit her. But on this particular vigil, in her father's absence, she was destined to face the memories, the past, and the heartache on her own.

It was a road she had traveled many times, yet never seemed to pass. There were no left turns, exits, forks in the path. It just kept on going, forever. As if her life would come full circle, and dump her in the same primordial sea of open-ended questions and false pretenses. Year after year, it was as reliable as the changing of seasons. The hopelessness would weigh on anyone's soul.

Little Catholic girls were taught not to question, to have faith in the intangible, and such was the word of the Lord. But what the sisters couldn't explain was what exactly she was expected to have faith in. God, yes, but what was He? Omniscient, omnipotent, intangible, sure, but those were simply words to explain something that cannot be explained.

Faith wasn't something she could slap under a microscope and inspect at ten, twenty, or even one hundred times the normal magnification. And to justify the fact that she should trust in something that couldn't be explained, she required proof—irrefutable evidence that this something even existed—before her skeptical mind would accept faith in what she couldn't take apart and analyze.

But it was never an issue with having faith in the first place. It had been an issue of losing it.

As a child, she easily accepted that there was a higher power... a God Almighty even. It seemed necessary actually, to explain the oceans and the sky and feelings such as joy, peace, and innocence. But what sort of God could there be who would knowingly rip apart families and bring them pain, who takes children from their parents and parents from their kids? What sort of God would condemn anyone to a life of uncertainty and emotional torment from such an early age?

Better yet, how was she supposed to keep faith in such a being?

And because nobody could answer her, really answer her, she sought resolution for herself. If she became motivated enough, looked hard enough, never gave up... maybe she could find what she was looking for. Or, maybe not. Because inherently what she was trying to find wasn't her mother's killer. No, on some level she was looking for something that the boundaries of space and time couldn't contain. She was searching for her faith, not that imposed upon her from childhood Bible readings or catechism classes, but the faith in herself—in the person she had become because of the life she had lead.

It had been a twenty plus year crisis, and still the doubt, apprehension, and fear surrounding the circumstances of 'the day' loomed over her like an ominous cloud foreshadowing the storm to follow. She was still stuck in that ten year old frame of mind, and while her memory seemed to fade, no longer able to remember the sound of her mother's voice or the how it felt when she brushed her hair in the morning, it would never forget the image of her mother lying on the cold floor, breathless.

_This is what he must have felt like, coming here, alone._

She shivered, as the sun finally sank below the horizon and the lights along the cemetery's pathway flickered, signaling the day's official end. Rows of grave markers laid before her, solemn reminders of the lives that once existed. She continued along the familiar path, coming to a halt only once she was at her mother's side. Wordlessly, she placed a single lily upon the headstone, pausing to run a hand over the smooth granite, and noticing for not the first time that it really was a poor substitution for living, breathing flesh and blood. The words etched into the front seemed so final, so... set in stone, and her mere presence never seemed to change that.

There was the overwhelming urge to simply break down and cry for eternity, but that feeling was just as familiar as the sight of mother's name, displayed there for the entire world to see. So she fought it, standing alone before all that truly remained of her mother, and forcing herself not to feel.

She failed to notice another rainfall begin to take the evening hostage. Trying to save her heart from more damage, she made herself numb. In fact, she didn't even flinch as a hand rested upon her shoulder. She knew it wasn't her father, yet in her heart of hearts she hoped it to be. Her father was the only one who could ever truly understand the heartache coursing through her veins. He was the only person who knew how truly lost she was, if only because he was so utterly astray himself.

No, the gentle hand came not from her father, but from a friend instead. She didn't turn to acknowledge his presence, and he hadn't uttered a word to make himself known. They simply stood there, staring at the unchangeable past, etched in stone, forever and always.

Minutes passed and the rain became more persistent, yet she wasn't about to budge. He wasn't either. The next move was in her hands, and if she insisted on standing here all night, that's what he'd do. She simply didn't deserve to be alone.

It was when he placed his jacket over her that she finally broke, legs no longer able to hold the weight her heart had imposed upon itself. Turning into her friend for the comfort and warmth she never thought she needed, she finally cried, "What am I supposed to do? Please, just tell me what I'm supposed to do." Years of turmoil streamed down her face, joining with the rain to the point where he couldn't tell where the tears ended and the raindrops began.

He was hard pressed for an immediate, thoughtful answer, knowing that now he had to impart some sort of wisdom... and he really didn't have much of that. But what he did have was faith, in her, in the inherent goodness of mankind, and in something more powerful than him that had reasons of His own for all the bad things this world seemed to contain. And better yet, he believed in his own ability to be a friend, to grow on people.

"You told me once that I wear my heart on my sleeve. And if that's true, then you also know that I wear my soul on my chest. You wondered why I'd take that risk, to bear my heart only to have someone easily crush it. And I told you that I wear it there mostly because it has been broken before. You called me a masochist and poured me another drink," he smiled slightly at the memory. "But what you won't admit is that your heart and soul is in the open too. I see it Jordan, even if you insist on trying to keep your feelings so sheltered, hidden away, your heart and soul are there. Tattered and weary, but it's all right there," he whispered, accentuating his point by placing a hand right beneath her collarbones, while the other lingered on her shoulder. "And I think, what you need to do now, is simply have faith in that. Have faith that I can see it, have faith that it's there, that you have the strength to survive despite the hand you've been dealt. Have faith in yourself, in the place inside which you can find peace."

"What if I can't?" she whispered, taking a shaky step into his chest.

He accommodated her frame easily, though just now realizing how cold and soaked she was. Taking in a deep breath and pulling her closer, he mumbled into her damp hair, "You can."

"How, how do you know?" she muttered against his chest, and his response wasn't so much an answer, but more of a pledge to the place in her where she could find resolution. Regardless of the intent, what he said simply baffled her, yet it sounded beautiful just the same.

"Namasté, Jordan. Namasté."

Fin.

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Author's note: Namasté is a traditional Sanskrit word that can be translated as follows: the act of recognizing the divine within—believing in oneself is akin to believing that the divine lives within you. In essence, by saying "Namast" he was telling her "I honor the place in you where the entire universe dwells—the place which is of love, of light, truth and peace." I thought it made for a heartfelt story. How about you?


End file.
